


Silence

by Carnivore



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Art, Crafts, Friendship, Gen, Platonic Relationships, Silence, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 14:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4064185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carnivore/pseuds/Carnivore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one would ever try subjecting Cyclonus to therapy, but it sort of happens on its own.<br/>Based on the assumption that Rung is old and/or educated enough to know Old Cybertronian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

> I'm tagging it as a relationship because it's a _basis_ for the ship. This is a new tag, too, and I'm quite proud to be going down this untrodden path. The story might get a sequel in which the actual relationship begins, but don't worry: Tailgate won't be left out of it. No one gets left out when Rung is involved.

No. Cyclonus didn’t need therapy. But Tailgate told him that a certain mech who was much older than he looked would welcome his company. A mech that no one had ever described as bothersome, and who also remembered the Old Tongue.

To emphasize that it was _not_ therapy, Rung didn’t speak. He welcomed Cyclonus with a polite nod and just the right amount of friendly smile, showed him into the office and returned to his work.

Distant from the more populated rooms and corridors, Rung’s office was the most peaceful place on the ship. Cyclonus stood by the circular windows, then sat on the patients’ couch. He stole glances at the orange mech, who seemed to be comfortable with a tall, brooding presence in his room. Cyclonus didn’t feel forgotten - he was pleasantly _undisturbed_.

Sometimes he paced the room in slow, quiet strides, or stood in the corner, where he had a good view of Rung and his work. The bespectacled mech responded with rare, contemplative looks in between sorting his datapads, writing notes, arranging his desk drawers. Next time Cyclonus came by his desk, there was a small box of energon sticks. It stood further from Rung than it was most comfortable for him to reach; it was placed perfectly between him and the guest. This time Rung didn’t look his way: not when his claws reached for a stick, not when he bit at it absent-mindedly in his corner. They shared the food as they shared the silence. It was a comfortable silence of people who didn’t need words. In the end, there was only one, and it meant good-bye. There was one response, and it had a slightly different meaning. In the Old Tongue, it meant “I shall see you soon”.

There was a schedule of appointments on his door, and Cyclonus’ name wasn’t in it. Because he didn’t need therapy. He was only there for the silence.

Next time, there was a chair in the corner. On the desk stood two glasses and an elegant jar. The drink had a velvety soft flavor. It warmed his spark and brought peace to his mind, like the silence distilled into a liquid form. Rung’s hands were a mesmerising sight of grace: assembling a model, sanding its surface, applying paint and small details with the finest of instruments. Rung didn’t look away from his work, towards the small _clank_ of a chair brought closer. In the end, the graceful fingers brushed against the claws as Cyclonus was given the model for a closer look. The warrior was as careful as he’d ever been, studying the perfect handiwork. His look wandered to the shelf, where dozens of models were lined up. The crimson optics lit up with curiosity - they were met with a genuinely touched smile. They stood and they studied the shelves, the models that had been arranged in perfect harmony: large pieces and small, smooth and rounded forms punctuated by the sharp dynamics of spines and angles. Cyclonus placed the model in a spot that seemed most perfect for it. The craftsmech nodded his approval.

The chair stood just as it had been left, and there was a neat stack of parts and blueprints on Cyclonus’ side of the desk. The metal they were made of turned out to be soft and thin. The warrior’s too-large claws botched the work: he shook his helm in frustration, but Rung was unperturbed. He took a wing part that had been scratched and nearly pierced by a claw, then he procured a small knife to add a few careful cuts onto the surface. What seemed to be a ruined piece of low-quality metal was being turned into a tasteful carving.

The sound of claws on metal disturbed the silence, but the work brought Cyclonus more serenity than a simple lack of noise. A rectangular plate of malleable alloy was being covered in geometric shapes that formed an intricate pattern, perfect and precise. Cyclonus seemed to lack imagination, but it was compensated for by his patience and an eye for detail. Sometimes he copied patterns from Rung’s design book, the other times he interlaced the shapes with ancient runes. Into the cheap plain metal of nowadays he etched the forgotten wisdom of proverbs, quotes and verses of exalted hymns.

Cyclonus hummed. Rung was smiling softly, engrossed with his own craftsmanship but unable to resist an occasional glance at his companion’s face, sharp and gaunt but so peaceful. There was one time when their looks met, and neither turned away. They showed tranquility, acceptance and an evanescent gleam of gratitude.

Rung didn’t insist that Cyclonus showed him the carvings, but the small mech’s face lit up with quiet admiration whenever he did. Curiously, Rung preferred the patterns that had been carved absent-mindedly, observing that they showed more personality, whereas Cyclonus was most proud of the intricate pieces that had required a lot of concentration. The warrior never showed him the verses, but there was one time when he’d _carefully_ forgotten on Rung’s desk a small rune-covered tablet. Neither of them had spoken of it ever since, and it didn’t turn up on the shelves. But Rung adopted a new, subtle gesture. He made it sometimes when they weren’t looking at each other; he made it seem absent-minded but Cyclonus knew it was meant for him. It was Rung’s hand rising to his chestplate for a quick touch, as if he was checking that one of his compartments, the one closest to his spark, was safely closed.

**Author's Note:**

> An anonymous genius suggested a name for this ship I instantly fell in love with: Psyclonus.   
> It reminds me of my favourite type of Pokemon (one of which is a _clone_ ) and Diclonius (who have psychic abilities and also horns)


End file.
